Verlassen für Ferien mit der Ex: Mein Gefährte flehte um meine Rückkehr

When my mother was just days away from giving birth to me, my father cheated on her with her closest friend.

I was born on the side of the road, a consequence of my father's infidelity sending my mother into a tailspin.

For a woman who had indulged in privilege for most of her life, this was a disgrace, a stain she couldn't wipe away.

My father, feeling invincible because their marriage had been an arranged one, was arrogant and reckless. But my mother had a fiery spirit; she stood her ground and divorced him.

Determined to show everyone that she was fine on her own, she transformed into a relentless workaholic, pouring herself into her career.

Not one to be outdone, my father devised a plan to take me away, believing it would hurt my mother. This was something I learned only later.

Truthfully, my mother didn't care about my well-being; my very existence felt like a mistake to her, a symbol of original sin.

She believed that if she hadn't gotten pregnant with me, my father wouldn't have sought solace in another woman's arms.

Thus began a bitter battle between them that lasted for years.

To win, my mother feigned love for me in public but tormented me in private.

She warned me, "If you tell anyone about this, I'll pretend you don't exist. Don't think your father cares for you; your stepmother could easily get rid of you! One day, they'll have children of their own, and then you'll realize how worthless you are!"

The most chilling words I heard in my childhood were her vicious curses.

"Your father doesn't love you at all; he already has another family. You'll only be a burden to them. You have only me—without me, you have no life, no future…"

In the end, my mother won the battle, while I lost completely.

The mistress had given my father a son.

From that point on, he showed no interest in me—he truly didn't love me.

But I soon discovered my mother didn't love me either.

Growing up in such a hostile environment, I became exceptionally perceptive, constantly seeking to please my mother.

I learned to read her moods well, but to her, my efforts came off as manipulative and repulsive, just like that mistress.

She rejected my attempts to bond and often grabbed my face, hurling endless insults.

"You worthless, pick-me girl, you are disgusting…" She would hurl every crude label at me.

As I grew older, her hatred intensified.

She claimed I had the face of a "pick-me girl" and warned that one day I'd be knocked down for it.

At six years old, I reached out for my mother's embrace, and in a fit of rage, she shoved me away.

She showed no hesitation in sending me into a dangerous fall. As a result, I stumbled backward, tumbling down a flight of stairs.

That incident left a lasting mark on me; I remember it vividly.

I once had an adorable face people showered praises on, but the incident made me an ugly girl that people avoided like the plague.

At school, I felt isolated, and my classmates avoided me because of the scar that now marred my forehead.

That scar came from the fall down the stairs that could have been treated easily, but my mother wouldn't allow it.

She said, "I'm helping you shed that pick-me-girl look; you should be grateful!"

Thus, the scar accompanied me throughout my childhood.

But my mother's cruelty didn't stop there.

When I turned twelve, she switched to a new form of torment.

She took me hiking but abandoned me halfway up the mountain, leaving me to scream for help with no one around to hear me.